


All the Places I Could Go

by mrasaki



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, M/M, seduction by baked goods, this is Chuck's hard hard life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most parents, after dragging their children all over creation then being discharged from active duty, would do the proper thing and settle down someplace, get a job with decent hours, plant a garden, read a book, catch up on sleep. Let their kids alone.</p><p>Herc opened a bakery. </p><p>This is not at all how Chuck envisioned college life would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Places I Could Go

**Author's Note:**

> Because Pacific Rim is a fandom I've lurked in since the beginning but never had any intention to write for (hi guys!), I literally just told a friend that I don't do AUs because they're too hard, and sometimes I snap while wrestling with WIPs that aren't behaving and write the silliest, floofiest thing I can think of instead.
> 
> In other words, somewhere along the line, I got distracted by the image of Stacker Pentecost in a frilly apron baking cupcakes and Chuck being awesome at customer service, and this happened.
> 
> Special thanks to that same friend [samikitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samikitty), who kept me cracking up and utterly unproductive by her suggestions for the name of the bakery, including “The Shatterscone,” “The Sprinkledome,” “Streudel Eureka,” and “Eurekake,” and for fielding random questions throughout the day like, “If Striker Eureka were a cake, what kind of cake would it be?”
> 
> And a minor warning: Chuck is less than...understanding about voluntary dietary restrictions. Keep that in mind, he's not exactly PC about it.

 

Chuck's morning begins with Herc crashing his door open and turning all the lights on. The light slams into his eyelids like sharpened knives and he moans in pain, muttering obscenities not quite under his breath and burrowing further into the covers, waving his middle finger in the direction of the door. Normally he'd be impressed with his own multi-tasking skills, but _fuck_ , seriously.

Herc laughs. Loudly and utterly without mercy. “Get up, boy, or I sic the dog on you.” He flicks the lights on and off again, eroding large chunks of Chuck’s sanity with each strobe stabbing into his eyeballs. Chuck adds the other middle finger.

“Warned ya.” A scrabble of claws, heavy panting, then a pause as the dog goes airborne, launched by Herc straight onto Chuck's head.

_“FUCK!”_

“We're leaving in ten, get your arse in gear.”

This is not at all how Chuck envisioned college life would be.

 

+

 

Chuck slumps against the counter and digs his thumbs into his eyes. It's six in the morning on a Friday, and he has class at nine. Fuck his life.

Most parents, after dragging their children all over creation then being discharged from active duty, would do the proper thing and settle down someplace, get a job with decent hours, plant a garden, read a book, catch up on sleep. Let their kids the fuck alone.

Herc opened a bakery.

Chuck's mind is still reeling from that, a year later. The man hadn't even known how to _cook_ , much less bake, before he'd slapped down a down payment on The Shatterscone. The previous proprietor, a grandmotherly type with steel in her eye, splintery wooden spoon in hand, and a penchant for bakery names that make Chuck cringe, had taught Herc everything she knew. But even with the lessons the shop had nearly foundered anyway despite an influx of starving college students with no taste buds until two things had happened – Herc's RAF buddy retired for his health, and Herc discovered a talent for bread.

Stacker Pentecost, scariest man Chuck's ever had the pleasure of knowing, is apparently a savant at cupcakes and delicate pastries. And his dad's bread thing – that's probably more to do with the thumping and kneading and punching and the crazed look in Herc's eye that he gets sometimes, honestly. Their Yelp reviews are very complimentary about Herc's biceps.

And his bread, which even Chuck has to admit is pretty damn good, but mostly his biceps.

And Chuck? Chuck's the free labor.

“Do you have anything gluten-free?”

Chuck doesn't look up. Maybe if he digs his thumbs in just a little more, the wanker in front of him will go away. The yoga pants crowd's come through already, filled to the brim with a _joie de vivre_ that sucked away what little will to live Chuck had managed to scrape together. Up next are the professors and students in various states of consciousness going to early classes, but before them comes this guy. Always this guy, in varying states of disheveled, all rumpled clothes and crooked, taped glasses, twitching in ten different directions at once. Chuck's not entirely sure the man ever sleeps.

“Hello?”

“Mate,” Chuck grates out, “We have this same conversation every single fucking day. You are in a _bakery_. You want gluten-free, go eat an apple. And I know you're not gluten intolerant, I saw you eating a bloody cronut yesterday!”

Newt grins, totally unfazed. “Well, I still eat gluten-free. It's more to like, flush the toxins, you know?”

“I swear I will punch you right in the knackers. _What'll you have?”_

Newt gulps. “Uh, the usual. Apple fritter, please. With extra glaze.”

“Anything to drink?”

“You got anything sugar-free?”

 

+

 

Chuck's attempting to get his class reading done when he feels Pentecost looming over him. He never sees him coming, oh no. The man just turns up like a spectre of death and _looms_ until Chuck finally notices and then nearly dies from fright.

“I hear you've been swearing at the customers again.”

Pretending he didn’t just jump and knock his book to the floor, Chuck pastes on an smirk. “It's all part of my charm.” The next step of this dance, repeated at least once a day and sometimes more if Pentecost is feeling especially feisty, is an alpha dog stare-down where Pentecost eyes him as if he's pondering whether Herc would forgive him if he twisted Chuck's head off like a balloon (Chuck's pretty sure Herc wouldn't, but he's taking no bets) and Chuck hangs onto his smirk with the stubbornness of a man who has nothing left but his determination not to be out-stubborned.

Pentecost's wearing the apron that Mako got for him. It's frilly and purple and under _The Shatterscone Bakery_ is the subtitle, _They See Me Rollin’._ Somehow it doesn't help.

Finally, probably noticing the customer who's just come up and is staring at them with growing alarm, Pentecost continues, “I'm off to meet our suppliers, see if the Kaidanovskys can't get us any more of that imported sugar by tomorrow. Mako's coming in at eight. You behave.”

Chuck gives him an eye roll and a salute.

Pentecost sticks a finger in his face. "And watch your language. Do _not_ teach Mako any more of that."

 

+

 

“Your boyfriend's here,” Mako says into his ear and in a pavlovian reaction, he instantly turns a bright, incriminating red. “Extra foam latte, for Raleigh!” she yells over the hissing espresso machine. She's drawn an elaborate leafy heart into the foam, and has the balls to give him a wide-eyed look of dewy innocence when he glares at her for it.

“He is not my --” he's hissing at her when the person in question appears, all easy crooked smile and tousled hair. Chuck goes even redder, damn his fair complexion. It's just warm back there behind the counter, with the hot ovens and steaming espresso machine, that's all. That's his story, and he's sticking to it.

“Hey Chuck,” Raleigh says.

“Oi,” Chuck grunts. Mako throws an elbow into his side and he realizes he's staring. It's that fucking sweater, like a really untalented grandmother knitted it. He kind of wants to tear it off him. Purely out of outrage.

Raleigh nods at the cup in his hand. “I think that's mine?”

Blushing even more miserably, Chuck shoves it across the counter, heedless of the way the coffee slops over his hand. Mako chips him in the ankle. “ _Ow_ – Do you uh, want to try one of our new cupcakes? Stacker just came up with them.”

He realizes then he's just put his foot in it because goddamnit, Herc and Pentecost's habit of naming their creations after the code-named choppers they flew in the military and the names are _so goddamn dumb,_ like something straight out of a meme generator. “The newest one's called, uh, Cherno Alpha. Matcha green tea with raspberry. That one’s Gipsy Danger, blueberry cream with orange peel. But Striker Eureka’s my favorite, it’s kind of a lemon cake with meringue.”

He’s babbling. Then before he can stop himself, he _keeps_ babbling, “On the house.”

Fuck. _Fuck._ He tries his best to die.

Raleigh beams, just a little too happily for free cake, in Chuck's opinion. “Thanks, but it's a little early for sweets. Maybe later? I'll see you in class at nine, right?”

Chuck shrugs sullenly.

Raleigh's smile slowly slips off his face, replaced with faint confusion. “Okay...then maybe I'll see you there. If you don't have to work or something.” _Or be busy being a dick_ , is unsaid but crystal clear. He pauses to give Max a pat, then he's gone with only a single, lingering glance over his shoulder at Chuck and a wave at Mako, extra napkins wadded in his hand to clean up the drippy cup.

“Smooth,” Mako comments.

“Shut it.”

She sniffs. “At least you didn't swear at him this time.”

Chuck groans into his hands. Honestly, he's not this terrible at flirting with people, he's not, not that he's had all that much experience at it. It's an unfortunate side effect of not being a fan of...well, humanity. He's not shy, he just doesn't like people. Most people.

“Small victories.” She pats him on the shoulder. “Why not give him a cupcake when you see him later?”

“You – What? No,” he splutters, absolutely awash in the horror of it. “You've been watching those Korean dramas again. No seduction by baked goods. Terrible idea. No.”

“Who says no to cupcakes?” she replies, neither confirming nor denying the charge.

“He just did!”

“He said it is too _early_ for cake. There is a difference.”

“No. Just no. Do I look like a bloody girl to you?” Chuck dries up instantly as Mako levels The Look at him, which really shouldn't be as devastating as it is considering Mako's only his de facto step-sister, not like, his girlfriend or his mum. And keeps giving it to him until he drops his eyes and mutters, “...A fully empowered girl with complete agency in her life?”

The Look doesn't waver and if anything, intensifies.

“...a paragon of feminism and equality, who stands for women of all races and creeds?”

“I'll pack Striker for you.”

 

+

 

Raleigh fucking Becket is an obnoxious shit, Chuck decides later as he sits in class and glares at the back of Raleigh's head.

Raleigh's older than the rest of the class, having dropped out when he was Chuck's age to work in construction during the housing boom – according to Mako – then returned later when the economy went bust. So he's in a weird mix of lower and upper division courses. Like this English class, and one of Mako’s upper-div engineering ones. Chuck wonders not for the first time what his major even is.

And like a teacher's pet, Raleigh has to sit right up front and ask lots of questions and pay attention with the bushy tailed, bright eyed energy of a morning fucking person making everyone else look bad. Making _Chuck_ look bad.

Chuck never did get that reading done. This fact is not helping his mood, even if he does have a pretty good view of Raleigh's long legs and shoulders.

Raleigh's got his friend Tendo sitting next to him and the two are conferring together about something that Chuck can’t hear. Tendo is very handsy for a guy who looks like he just rolled out of an Elvis record, he seethes, Tendo squeezing Raleigh's neck while saying something probably lewd and they laugh about it together. Chuck knows it's irrational but he can't bring himself to care, he just hates Tendo and his grabby hands.

Then Naomi, the journalism major who's in a couple of Chuck's other classes and is brunette and toned and green-eyed and more than a little hot, leans over to Raleigh rather farther than Chuck thinks is strictly necessary and gives him a thousand-watt smile. She mock-whispers, _Do you have the notes from last week? I forgot to take any_ which is complete and utter bullshit because Naomi takes her academic scholarship very seriously and Chuck knows from experience that her wide-eyed innocent Bambi look exists nowhere in her repertoire except around Raleigh.

Raleigh, who'd seemed genuinely interested whether Chuck was going to be in class or not, who visits the bakery pretty much five mornings a week for the same stupid extra-foam latte and sometimes on Saturdays if he's got a job nearby and usually gives Chuck a bonus eyeful of smoking hot blonde scruff and that smile and blue eyes. Chuck's an idiot, because it only occurs to him now that Raleigh was just being friendly. He's probably exchanged more complete sentences with Mako than with Chuck at this point.

Chuck is absolutely not jealous, okay.

Naomi does her _Poor me, I'm actually a bimbo_ act every week, and every week – like now – Raleigh blinks at her then falls for it hook, line, and sinker.

Now she puts her hand on his arm. Raleigh gives her a hesitant smile.

Suddenly, Chuck really needs to get out of there. The moment the minute hand of the clock hits the fifty mark and their professor starts shuffling paper and nattering on about next week, Chuck jerks out of his chair, slams the box of cake down on Raleigh's desk – stupid Mako – and storms out.

He ignores his own name called after him.

 

+

 

The one advantage to Friday is that he has only the one class.

The main disadvantage is...well, everything else. He has to work the rest of the day, and it's _Friday_. He doesn't have much of a social life but it's the principle of the thing. He should be out, getting drunk or playing sports or chasing tail or whatever else the bludgers do around here, but he has to go back to work, feeling all out of sorts for reasons he doesn't want to think about.

He gets back to the bakery to find a dog-napping in progress.

The Wei triplets freeze as he rounds the corner, Max dangling happily from one of their – Chuck can never tell them apart – arms.

“Oi!” he bellows.

“Shit!” One of the Weis yells. “Run!”

Chuck tosses his backpack aside and hurdles the outdoor tables and chairs they throw in his way. They're wiry and fast, eeling out of his grasp, tossing Max underhand between each other like they're playing rugby. The dog, useless lump that he is, barks happily, jowls flapping and drool flying as he goes.

“We're just borrowing him!” one yells back at Chuck, doing a spinning twist that keeps him and his burden just out of Chuck's reach.

“For the basketball team photo!”

“He's our mascot!”

“You fuckers get the fuck back here!” Chuck yells, one of their shirts squirting through his fingers before he trips over an overturned chair. He goes sprawling, punctuating the air with more choice words.

“We'll bring him back!” trails back to him as they hoof it around the block and out of sight.

Inspecting his scraped palms and torn jeans, he picks himself up then turns to trudge back to the shop, only to find Pentecost once again looming. A smear of flour stands out on the man's cheek like warpaint, though thankfully he's minus the apron. “What did I say about language?” Pentecost growls.

“They're not bloody customers, are they?” Chuck snarls. “Fucking dog-nappers, that's what they are.” He slams past him into the shop. “Mori! Control your boyfriends!”

“They are not my boyfriends, they are friends that are boys,” Mako corrects, completely unperturbed by Chuck’s crisis. “And don’t shout at Chuck,” she says to her adopted father, “I’m not sure that was even English.”

“English or not, don't you repeat any of it,” Pentecost says, just as if Mako hasn't taught Chuck an equivalent number of swears in Japanese even if she doesn't liberally pepper her everyday speech with them, or even when she burns herself on the espresso machine...or pretty much never, actually.

Chuck snatches a battered manga from the free lending library in the back corner and goes to hide in the storeroom. He should be relieving Mako so she can go on break before the lunch rush, but fuck it, she'll survive for five minutes.

Unfortunately Pentecost, blowing past Chuck's obvious need for some time alone, pushes through the heavy door. The storeroom's small with no exits, so now Chuck's trapped.

“It wasn't English, remember,” Chuck says finally when the silence draws out too long and he can no longer pretend the man isn’t just standing there like a stone monolith, staring at him without blinking.

“You’re about to go and do something stupid,” Pentecost observes.

Chuck groans. “Can’t you send Mako to lecture me?”

“Mako is about to leave for class. You’re closing. I’d consider letting you off early, but you have a pattern when you're upset. That pattern usually involves doing something stupid.”

“Well, you can set your mind at ease, because I’m not, all right? I’m just sitting here, reading a bloody book—“

“You’re upset about your dog,” Pentecost continues just as if Chuck’s talking to thin air and not actively participating in this conversation.

“…Yeah, and?”

“Vengeance is like an open wound, Hansen.” He stares at Chuck. “That level of emotion is rarely helpful.” Chuck stares back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Pentecost is trying to be sympathetic, he realizes. Sympathetic and giving him his version of a heart-to-heart and now Chuck’s feeling like he’s going to have an aneurysm, red pulsing behind his eyes and his breath coming short. Oh god, he's having a talk with Stacker Pentecost about _feelings,_ can he just die already.

A weak “Oh,” is all he can manage. “All right?”

Pentecost nods. “Good talk.”

“Sure.” The door clangs closed behind him and Chuck sinks down onto a sack of flour and puts his head between his knees.

The door opens again and Mako sticks her head in, looking contrite. Chuck gives her his best puppy eyes. They're not that good, Chuck being out of practice with the more subtle arts, but he's got to try for his own sanity's sake. Fortunately Mako is a good buddy and takes the hint. “I'm leaving for lab. But gym tonight?” she suggests instead. “We can spar.”

“Could use a bit of exercise,” Chuck replies, inexpressably grateful. “My foot might get sore, kicking your ass so hard.”

She gives him that sweet half-smile that always promises pain for Chuck. “You can certainly try, Hansen.”

 

+

 

“Excuse me?”

Chuck lifts his eyes from his book, which he's convinced he's never going to finish. He likes Tolstoy just fine, the man writes a pretty good story, but sometimes it feels like running on a treadmill: you think you've made progress, then you actually look at the book and realize you've still got an entire marathon to go. Uphill. Against the wind. And then have to write a term paper about it. “Yeah?”

“What's that, uh, Romeo Blue thing?”

“Blackberry cream with dark chocolate ganache.”

“That’s a weird name for a cupcake.”

Chuck grits his teeth, baring them in a way that's supposed to look like a friendly smile but probably falls far short. “Like you wouldn't believe. Want it?”

"Uh, nah. What about that Crimson Typhoon one?"

“Red velvet and buttercream.”

“Is it paleo?”

Chuck makes a noise like a rusty truck stripping its gears. “Get out.”

“Dude, it was just a question.”

“GET. _OUT_.”

“Is it at least vegan?”

A large hand falls on Chuck's shoulder as he bellows, “I'll paleo you, you fucking broomstick!” Fuckface looks scared shitless, fumbling at the door and pulling when he should be pushing, then nearly falling out into the street on his ass. Good thing Pentecost's on another supply-wrangling trip, Chuck thinks dimly. They'd reached a kind of truce that afternoon, but this might be one test of Pentecost's patience too far.

Or maybe not, Pentecost takes his cupcakes and idiot questions about them pretty seriously.

“What, old man,” he snaps.

“You need a break, yeah?” It's not really a question, and the hand doesn't move, just grips tighter. “Go take a break.”

“Did you hear what he asked?” The guy – not a regular – scrabbles to his feet just outside the door, throwing Chuck a look of pure terror. “Yeah, YOU KEEP RUNNING!”

Herc heaves a patient sigh. “Chuck. They'll bring Max back just fine. They're shitheads, but they won't hurt him.”

Chuck shrugs his dad off. “Yeah, I'm not even worried about that.” Which isn't true at all – at least, not completely – but he likes to think that he isn't _that_ transparent. Max is his goddamn dog, he'll be upset about someone even temporarily kidnapping his dog if he wants.

“Uh huh. Made you something to eat. You haven't had lunch yet, yeah?”

 _Don't need you babying me,_ Chuck wants to growl. He hates it when Herc tries to do this, tries to make up for all the years he wasn't around to be a dad, when it was just Chuck and his mum waiting to hear if the asshole'd been blown out of the sky. But he is kinda hungry. And a Herc sandwich is nothing to turn down lightly.

“What kind,” Chuck mumbles, not looking at him.

Instead of replying, a plate nudges against Chuck’s elbow.

He looks down and freezes. The plate is piled high with sliced white bread – texas toast, thick and fluffy – cut into equal triangles, crusts off, covered liberally with butter and rainbow-colored sprinkles.

Fairy bread. His dad made him fairy bread. Chuck hasn’t had fairy bread in years, probably since he was a sprog doing the round of birthday parties and life was still simple and good because when you're a child you're too dumb to know any better.

“You’re having a bad day,” is all Herc says, before he pats him on the shoulder one last time, leaving him alone at the counter still gaping at the plate, swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat.

 

+

 

“That looks like a unicorn barfed all over perfectly good bread,” Newt says. The fucker's back for his afternoon cup of pure adrenaline – two espresso shots dunked in a cup of regular coffee, with enough sugar to give it the consistency of gravy. Normally this would proceed to complete the ruin of Chuck's day, because not only does he have to get this hyperactive ferret in the form of a person first thing in the morning, he gets him _again_ right before closing, but Chuck's got his mouth full of pure sugary rainbow nostalgia at the moment and is feeling particularly magnanimous.

Also Newt's brought along his....colleague, or whatever they are, since Chuck's pretty sure Newt's into biology, something to do with the freaky-looking creatures that live at the bottom of the deepest ocean, and Dr. Gottleib's applied mathematics. There's no reason for them to socialize at all, but he doesn't question it too much because Chuck likes Dr. Gottleib.

“Eugh, even your lips are rainbow.”

Gottleib whacks Newt on the shin with his cane. Chuck grins widely. That. That's why he likes him.

“For god's sake, Newton, I didn't think it was possible for you to be any more America-centric than you are. Have you never heard of fairy bread? Even the Dutch have a chocolate version of it.”

“You mean, unicorn vomit bread? Why would anyone put sprinkles on something that isn't cake or ice cream?”

“Watch it, I'm going to make Mako spit in your coffee tomorrow,” Chuck warns. “This, mate, is a _classic_.”

“It's disgusting.”

“Spit. Your coffee. Think about it. And how's this any different than Pop-Tarts or Twinkies or any other American junk food, you fucking wombat? At least I can pronounce the ingredients that went in this.”

“I'd like some tea, please,” Gottleib says to Chuck. “Ignore the short one, it's unbelievable they ever let him out of his lab.” He takes another whack at Newt. It connects, judging from the loud crack and the howl Newt unleashes.

“Your order's on the house, Doctor,” Chuck tells him with a genuine smile.

“Hey, wait, how come he gets a 'Doctor' and I don't?” Newt exclaims, hopping about on one foot.

“Because mathematics is an actual discipline,” Gottleib informs him, loftily. “Not mucking about with dead fish.”

Chuck stuffs the rest of the bread into his mouth, watching the argument degenerate into more cane-waving and Newt talking faster and faster until Chuck can't believe he hasn't vaporlocked and caught on fire yet. This part of the day is almost soothing, like a ritual, the shop practically empty and sleepy on a Friday afternoon. Even the students who camp out all day for the free wi-fi have taken off for parts unknown. The only dissonance is the empty space by the door, no Max either snoozing in his dog bed or begging for scraps from anybody who walks by.

He herds the two bickering professors through the door, Gottleib with his English Breakfast and orange-cran scone, Newt with his usual cup of heart-attack and a tuna sandwich. Someone in the heavens above must've felt a single jot of pity for Chuck, because Newt utters not a single question about sugar-free, vegan, GMOs, organic, free-range, gluten-free, or dairy-free before Chuck turns the lock on the door and turns the sign to _Closed_ with a palpable sense of relief.

And purpose.

Because while he'd been busy tuning the argument out, wiping down the counters and flipping chairs in anticipation of closing, he'd thought of something. Chuck's not the kind of person to lie around bewailing his fate or wait for certain shitheads to return his fucking dog. Cleared of the fugue of frustration and anger by the influx of sugar, now he's got a plan to get Max back. It involves an airhorn, the tournament game the Weis are playing tonight, and quite a lot of molasses.

Turns out ol' Stacks wasn't completely wrong, because Chuck is in the mood to do something really, _astoundingly_ stupid.

A light rapping at the door interrupts him as he's mopping with frantic speed, but the glare of the setting sun blocks out his view of anything but a dark figure stooping to peer in the door.

“We're closed!” Chuck shouts.

The tapping continues, then goes on some more despite Chuck repeating himself at louder volume.

Then a hesitant, muffled through the door, “Chuck?”

It's Raleigh, he realizes, at the door and flipping the lock and snatching it open in a heartbeat. “The fuck, mate?” he demands, all that day's frustration coming back to him in one furious rush. “We're closed.”

“Yeah, I know, but I –“ Raleigh gestures helplessly at his feet. This motion is accompanied by a happy bark and a solid weight scrabbling against Chuck's legs, and oh fuck, it's _Max_.

Chuck falls to his knees like he's been shot and gathers his dog into his arms. “There you are, you stupid bastard,” he says into the dog's ruff. “Fucking traitor, letting any imbecile kidnap your fat arse --” the harsh words punctuated with scrunching the dog's face, an ecstatically panting Max lunging forward to lick at any part of Chuck he can reach.

When Chuck finally looks up, he catches a strangely soft look playing across Raleigh's face, head cocked in that weirdly endearing _listening but confused puppy_ way he has. “Ah—thanks,” he says, swiping at his face with his sleeves, belatedly discovering that he might or might not be crying, just a little. “Where did you find him?”

“I went by the athletic complex on my way here,” Raleigh tells him. “Saw Max, but didn't see you. Figured that couldn't be right, so I kinda....stole him from those basketball kids?”

“You – Wait, the hell is he wearing?” Chuck demands, pulling back to have a good look at his dog. Apparently none the worse for wear for his adventure, the dog is clad in a bright red and gold basketball jersey that's too big for him, _Wei 01_ on the back. The hem drags on the ground like a nightgown. A plastic yellow lei hangs around his neck.

“School pride?” Raleigh sounds amused. “Don't you follow college basketball?”

“S'not a real sport.” Chuck tugs at the jersey, but apparently the dog's not having it, dancing away from his hands and wriggling his stubby tail at this fun new game.

“I wouldn't say that too loud around here, if I were you. Anyway, keep the jersey. If the triplets get picked up by the NBA, it might be worth a lot some day.”

“If they live that long,” Chuck mutters. “Come here, ya stupid dog!” Max waggles his tail again and remains just out of reach. Traitor.

“You look like you've had an interesting day,” Raleigh observes.

“I look like I've been hit with a weed whacker by three skinny drongos who are in the absolute shits if I ever catch them,” Chuck replies, unable to help his grin up at him. “The ripped up clothes and the scabs a dead giveaway?”

“That, and you look like you were attacked by a birthday cake.”

Chuck's in such a state of euphoria that he can't summon up any kind of embarrassment about having to explain. Or do much of anything other than chase stray sprinkles with his thumb and pop them in his mouth. “S'called fairy bread, the best culinary invention since sliced bread, and don't you forget it. Probably _was_ the thing invented right after sliced bread, come to think of it.” A thought strikes him. “Wait, did you say you were coming here? Got a night study session or something? We closed at four.”

Is that a blush pinking Raleigh's ears? “Well, I actually.” He coughs and holds up a sadly battered, very familiar box, and now great, now Chuck's also turning a bright red from mortification, how adorably matchy-matchy.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says quickly. “You didn't need to return it, it was dumb of me, you should’ve just tossed it in the bin—” he snatches at the box.

Raleigh holds it out of his reach. “Wait. Wait! I thought we could share?”

Chuck ceases his flailing – ask him just how much Raleigh's extra inch _pisses him right off_ , just ask him – to stare at him. “You—With me?”

Raleigh takes an overly dramatic look around at the empty street. “That's generally what 'we' means, doesn't it?”

Chuck stares at him for a long moment, torn. It really comes down to punching him or kissing him, if Raleigh's going to be sarcastic about it. Chuck opts for the kissing, what with the not forgetting that he's actually really grateful for the dog, even if he's still really embarrassed about the – everything else.

He realizes his lips are dry and chapped because lip balm isn't something he just carries around just in case he kisses certain pretty blondes, but Raleigh doesn't seem to mind. There's not even a moment of frozen surprise, like he's been expecting something like this – which Chuck is going to start caring about, should start caring about very soon – except the kiss starts to involve a little tongue and a little moan that may or may not be Chuck.

They break apart. And Chuck runs straight into a wall because what do you do right after kissing a bloke you've been a tit to for weeks (Chuck is an adult, he can admit this now) when technically you're still working and your bloody dog is sitting right there, staring at you with cocked head and bright-eyed interest?

He nudges Max with his foot so the dog'll quit judging him. Obligingly, Max rolls over, exposing his belly for rubs.

“There're forks inside,” he offers finally, but even if it comes out stilted and awkward Raleigh's mouth quirks in that way that always makes Chuck's insides go a little hot and melty.

It’s going to kill him later that apparently Mako was right, seduction by baked goods really is something that works in real life. But right now, as Raleigh shrugs and gives that crooked, pleased smile and says _Yeah sure,_ for the first time ever, Chuck's grateful he's closing on a Friday.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note:** On 'authentic' fairy bread, what I called ‘sprinkles’ are actually not sprinkles – the cylindrical/oblong kind – but the round ones called pareils (or, if you want to get really and truly Aussie about it because this is apparently serious business, “hundreds and thousands”) but for the sake of universal translation, sprinkles it is. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Come poke me on [Tumblr!](http://just-mrasaki.tumblr.com/))


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